


Portland

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst without resolution, F/M, M/M, Pining, Portland Oregon, Spoilers, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Portland, there is a man with special powers who needs to be caught. In Portland, there are two SHIELD teams and fancy pizza and a cellist.</p>
<p>In Portland, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portland

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: Spoiler for Agents of SHIELD episode 1x19, The Only Light in the Darkness. Be aware.** Also, please be aware that there is pining and angst, with no happy resolution to either.
> 
> I sort of prompted myself with this. I watched the episode and my first thought was that I wanted fic in which Clint had been on that first mission to Portland. In which he had to watch Coulson fall in love. Twelve hours later, I was writing it myself. Oh well. What can you do? Bunnies can be vicious.

Clint stood back, watching the elevator, the stairwell, and the door all at the same time. Several members of the team were in position all around the building, but Clint was the one to personally watch Coulson’s back, always. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it.

There was a pause before Nathan opened the door, as Coulson told her who they were, as he held his badge up to the peephole and rattled off Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, as he coaxed her with his calm, competent tone into opening the door.

Nathan’s eyes, when she finally emerged, showed terror. Her gaze landed on Clint just briefly, and it was Coulson’s gentle, “He’s with me,” that prompted her to look away again, to look back to Coulson. Clint watched, amazed and in awe as always, as Coulson started to gain her trust. Her fear began to visibly recede, and in a matter of a minutes they were both inside the apartment, being offered coffee. (Coulson accepted. He almost always did, claiming a caffeine dependency. Clint knew better. Half the time the coffee was left untouched. It was the routine of making it that Coulson was after, the familiar motions often working to settle their nervous hosts.)

Clint stayed at the door, his eyes on the windows, while Coulson and Nathan talked. There wasn’t a whole lot Coulson could actually tell her, of course, but still he was able to calm her further. Her shoulders never relaxed, but they were no longer practically up by her ears, and the thread of tension in her voice dissipated a little more with each sentence. Her eyes hardly ever strayed from Coulson’s face.

Clint didn’t like it.

It wasn’t unusual, of course, for a victim to latch on to an agent. It happened. The White Knight Syndrome. Clint always felt horribly awkward and ill-prepared when it happened to him, but Coulson handled it with his usual aplomb every time. He’d ignore it, mostly, keeping a calm and understanding tone even as he maintained a professional distance, insisting on last names and titles, and refraining from any kind of physical contact except in cases of emergency.

“Miss Nathan,” Coulson said as they were winding down the initial interview.

“Audrey, please, Agent Coulson.”

Clint’s jaw clenched and his toes shifted in his boots, but he said nothing, waiting for Coulson to gently use her last name again, to indicate to her that intimacy and familiarity were not welcome. They were here to do a job, to help her and apprehend a dangerous man. Not to make friends.

An unusual hesitation hung in the air, just for a second, before Coulson continued. “Audrey,” he said at last, and there was an undercurrent to his tone Clint had never heard before. “I promise you we will do everything we can to keep you safe. We are not going to let Daniels get to you. _I_ will not let Daniels get to you. Understand?”

Clint saw. He saw the way their eyes locked, and he saw the things not being said. He felt the shift in the air, could practically feel the spark as Nathan — _Audrey_ — reached out and touched Coulson’s hand.

Clint kept his spine straight and his eyes focused as he watched his chance slip away.

 

_________

 

No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they certainly gave no indication of it. Of course none of them had worked with Coulson as long as Clint had, or knew him as well. No one commented on the name thing (which happened every time Coulson spoke with Nathan. Behind closed doors, during briefings and tactical planning she was Miss Nathan, Nathan, always Nathan. But to her face, where it counted? It was Audrey. Every damn time). No one seemed to notice the oddness of their casual touches, just brief brushes of fingers against a wrist, a hand. No one but Clint batted an eyelash as Coulson wrapped an arm around her shoulders to lead her away from potential danger. And no one thought twice about the fact that, as they were wrapping everything up, Nathan called Coulson “Phil,” and he did absolutely nothing to correct her. As he smiled at her and stood there, lingering, the goodbyes and reassurances long done and over with.

Clint couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Portland.

“All I want is my bed,” he said as they packed up their hotel room. Clint had almost been tempted to ask for a switch several times during the op, the atmosphere between them having shifted drastically from their usual easy comradery. But Clint seemed to be the only one who felt the change, and it would have had to have been Coulson he’d asked for the new room assignment. How the hell would he have explained that?

Coulson hummed as he packed up some equipment. Clint tossed his shaving kit into his bag, then stuffed a stray t-shirt into the free space, before zipping it all up and leaving it and his bow case on the bed. He moved to help Coulson with the tech, because there were still several suits hanging in the closet, and they were supposed to be wheels up in less than thirty minutes.

“Well, and some pizza. True New York pizza. None of this goddamn west coast crap. Organically grown, locally sourced, my ass. Just give me cheese, grease, and a crust you can fold in half.”

Coulson didn’t say anything, and he didn’t make a move towards the suits.

Clint concentrated on dismantling some of the surveillance and tracking equipment, taking his time placing the pieces in their cases and carefully locking them away. “You, uh. You maybe want to go get a slice, boss? Once we’ve debriefed and all?”

“Agent Collins will be handling the debriefing, Barton. And I doubt she’ll accept the invitation.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m taking a few days. A small vacation. I won’t be in New York to enjoy the cuisine with you. As fine as it is.”

“You’re . . .” Clint stared at his supervising agent as he tried to process the information. Coulson didn’t take vacations. He just didn’t. Medical leave, sure. An afternoon for sightseeing here and there after an op in a foreign city. That one time they’d sat on the beach for an hour in Costa Rica. But never a _vacation_.

“Don’t look so shocked, Barton,” Coulson said, sounding mildly amused. “I’m well overdue.”

“Yeah.” Clint swallowed, his chest feeling suddenly tight and ragged, and looked away. He grabbed the case he’d just secured and hauled it off the desk, then stopped to pick up his bag and bow too. “I’ll just send O’Dwyer around for the rest of this stuff, shall I?”

“I’d appreciate that, Barton. Thanks.”

Clint stood there dumbly for a second or two, just looking at the line of Coulson’s back, the curve of his neck as he bent his head over his task. “Well, uh. Enjoy your vacation, boss.”

“Thank you. Try not to give Agent Collins too much grief.”

“You know me, sir,” Clint said, his voice ringing falsely cheerful in his own ears.

“Why do you think I said it?” Coulson sounded amused, but he didn’t even turn around.

Clint shifted the strap on his shoulder and thought about saying goodbye, but couldn’t, in the end, get the words past his throat. He turned, hesitated for half a second at the sight of the hanging suits in the closet, then left without another word.


End file.
